Just One More
by sydneysages
Summary: Connie Beauchamp drinks more than she used to, and she's usually alone. One night, however, Sam's her drinking companion. /"You do more than just make me speechless, Connie." / Strachamp - ConnieSam


So I started writing this before Sam resigned, so it's technically AU now, but a lot of the feelings still stand.

TW for excessive drinking/hinting at this at least

* * *

Curtains drawn, heating on. Gentle music playing in the background. A glass of wine – sod it, a _large_ glass of wine. Everything which used to form part of a perfect night, and now is all that gets her through from day to day.

From the outside, Connie Beauchamp has everything. Or rather, she _had_ everything. A daughter with a huge personality; a brilliant job; a man who made her feel something romantically for the first time in ten years.

And now, here she is, cultured and sophisticated and hating every second of it.

This used to be her ideal evening, before. Before she decided that she wanted a child, before she gave up everything at Holby to go and look after her father, before Sam Strachan decided that he wanted to take an active interest in his daughter's life, rather than just being the doting father from afar. After a stressful day, she'd come home and make dinner (and make Grace's dinner, before she went to boarding school), and then enter into a world of her own. A world where there was no politics to battle or schemes to bypass. A world where she was happy and content, and for a few minutes none of the world's problems could affect her.

Nowadays, it's just something that she does to try and resemble the woman she was before everything happened. It doesn't bring her peace anymore – but it helps.

Well, the wine does.

She drinks more than she used to, but never too much…not on a night before she has work, anyway. Sometimes, the only way to get through the prospect of a day alone is to drink so much that her head aches for most of the morning – and even then, she'll probably end up going into the department to do some paperwork or something. Days off and Connie Beauchamp don't go together particularly well, especially nowadays.

So she drinks her wine, nibbles on some ridiculously expensive (and apparently delicious) chocolate that her colleagues purchased her when she left Switzerland, and gets another glass of wine.

And another glass.

And another glass.

Then the bottle's empty, and she's contemplating getting another one out of the wine rack (though she's mainly thinking about which _type_ of wine she should get), when the doorbell rings.

She freezes as the chime reverberates through the room, almost visibly vibrating. If this is happening, she's definitely had too much wine, yet she can't stop herself unscrewing the cap. She's fallen a long way to be drinking wine that doesn't involve a corkscrew, but it's better than going to answer the door to someone she probably won't want to speak to.

In all honesty, there's only one person she wants to speak to: Grace. But she doesn't want to speak to Connie, which is in fairness almost all Connie's fault.

The doorbell rings again, and again, and again, until it's a series of chimes overlapping one another. She _knew_ she shouldn't have let Grace choose the doorbell; they should have just gone for a simple bell, one which would ring once and then fall silent.

It's yet another reminder of the girl who is no longer in her life.

Suddenly, irrationally, irritated, Connie grabs her glass of wine and saunters through to the hallway, steadying herself on the wall only once on her way. At the door, she can see the silhouette of a person who she _definitely_ doesn't want to see.

Sam Strachan.

"Open the door, Connie," he calls, as if he can see her, which he probably can to be honest. She made a stupid decision in choosing a frosted glass door, just as she's made almost every stupid decision in the book. "I know you're there."

"One minute," she responds sharply, not bothering to disguise the hatred in her voice. Why does Grace love _him_ , the man who barely saw her for the first eight years of her life, so much? Why can he never put a foot wrong, when he leaves her just as often as Connie did?

She struggles to find the key in the drawer until she realises that it's already in the door, which is probably why Sam couldn't just let himself in.

Slowly, she pulls the door open, and she hopes that the expression on her face is sternly neutral, because she can't really feel _what_ her face is doing right now. The last glass of wine was definitely a mistake.

It's quite clear that he's analysing her expression, posture, and the extremely full glass of wine in her left hand as he stands, staring, in the doorway.

"Well are you going to let me in?" Sam says, his tone curt. "I've had a long day."

Connie takes a step back from the door, extending her arm out in faux welcome. At the same time, she rolls her eyes dramatically, probably too dramatically. Then again, why does she care what Sam Strachan thinks of her? She definitely, _definitely_ doesn't.

(She definitely, definitely does. And she hates it.)

"A long day?" she repeats, more than a little sarcastically. " _Do_ tell what they involve."

Sam pushes past her into the hallway, and closes the door behind him. As he does, his jacket sleeve brushes against Connie's arm, and she realises that it's wet. Must be raining outside – which potentially explains why her baby daddy is in such a brutal mood.

"I'm not here for a fight," Sam states, though his tone suggests that, secretly, he is. "Grace just asked me to get something on my way home from work."

Connie doesn't say anything, simply lifts her glass to him, saluting cheers, before turning and heading back towards the living room. It just isn't worth the hassle anymore.

* * *

.x.

* * *

She's sitting in the living room again, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time, when the door opens. Connie turns to look, startled slightly, and sees Sam standing there, the open bottle of wine in one hand and an empty glass in the other.

There's lots she _wants_ to say, but doesn't, so she settles for, "oh. I didn't realise I'd asked you to join me."

He smiles a little – nervously, perhaps, though surely that's impossible for Sam Strachan – and gestures to the seat opposite Connie.

"It's been a long day. Mind if I stay for a glass?"

She wants to say _yes_ , but that would be too out of character. Connie Beauchamp doesn't _do_ needing people, let alone Sam. It's not what she's known for.

So she shrugs a little, just about keeping the wine in her glass from sloshing over, and turns away from him.

"Fine. Just don't talk about work."

* * *

.x.

* * *

The first thing he notices as he walks through his ex's front door (can he even call her an ex? Was there even a _thing_ between them?) is the smell of alcohol.

It's on her breath as she greets him, and as she brushes against him, he can tell that she's not quite got her balance right. It's a strange thing, to see Connie Beauchamp vulnerable. He's not quite sure if he's ever seen it before, at least like this.

The irritation he felt at being locked outside for ten minutes in the pouring rain dissipates a little as he watches her walk away from him without a fight. That isn't Connie. Something's different – she's not the same as she is at work. Or how she was before.

He watches her retreating form until she disappears, and even then, he continues staring at where she was, lost in thought about _what ifs_ and _could have beens_ , and the question of whether your judgement of someone is ever wholly accurate.

Then he shakes himself out of that mindset – because if he and Connie have ever been anything, it's wildfire; too similar to be compatible, at least in his youth, though they would never have admitted it. It's not conducive to think like that.

Swiftly, Sam makes his way upstairs towards Grace's bedroom. It's still intact and clean, no dust on any surfaces despite the fact that Grace hasn't lived here for almost two months. The bed's turned back, prepared for a little girl to go to bed, and that gives Sam more of an insight into Connie than ever. After she fought for Grace last year, on board that charter jet, she hasn't let her go – until now. And even now, she's still waiting for her to come home.

It becomes almost claustrophobic for him in Grace's room, so he grabs the bag under the bed and dashes out, shutting the door. The room's filled with an oppressive aura of love and hope and confusion, everything that he should really have expected in this home.

When he's back downstairs, Sam slips into the kitchen for a drink of water, realising that he's rather parched. It's been a long day – a boring day, truth be told – of meetings, and he hasn't really had any breaks. Bureaucracy really isn't for him, no matter what he tells people. The only good thing about it is that he can be here, with Grace.

As he drinks, Sam takes a cursory glance around Connie's kitchen. It's as pristine as ever, and stocked with high quality food, though most of the use-by dates seem to be rather short. Strange. Normally, he notices that Connie only gets things with as long to live as possible.

He almost drops his glass, however, when he takes a look at the recycling bin.

It's filled with empty wine bottles of every variety: red, white, rosé, even a bottle of what looks like _port_ , Elliot's former tipple of choice.

 _This_. This isn't what he expected Connie Beauchamp to do with her evenings.

Immediately, he's worried. For no matter what he says and how he acts, he's always concerned for Connie. It's more than just her being Grace's mother; there's always been something there…something indescribable, something that he'd absolutely deny if anyone asked him about it, but will never leave him. It's in the way that he's always described her to anyone who asks about her: stubborn, ridiculously intelligent, and the only person in the world like her.

Well, he thinks, that's not quite true anymore. Their daughter is her mother's spitting image, even down to her resentment of Connie, though she's not aware of it. Just as Connie isn't aware of the fact that Sam knows almost every detail about Connie's relationship with her family.

On the spur of the moment, Sam grabs the bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen work surface and an empty glass out of the cupboard, and strides through towards the living room. This is probably (definitely) a bad idea, and yet it feels strangely natural, as if he just sits and drinks with Connie every night of the week.

It's the first time that he's spent an evening with her since _before_ , when she allegedly just used him to conceive a child, and he's strangely nervous as he opens the living room door. What if she overreacts? What if she thinks he's mocking her – which, in fairness, it could quite easily look like?

What if she doesn't realise that the only reason he's there is because he cares about her, and cares far more than he probably should?

* * *

.x.

* * *

They sit without speaking for a few minutes, the soft music in the background disguising the awkwardness, both just drinking their wine. It's rather good, for a screw-top, Connie thinks, trying to make herself consider anything other than the question that's bothering her:

Just _why_ is Sam Strachan here?

Is he here to assess her? Or to mock her, to make her realise that, whilst he can _choose_ to sit here with her, he then gets to go home to their daughter who loves him, and isn't concerned to show it? Does he want to rub it in even more?

Surely not. Sam Strachan is many, _many_ things, but vindictive? Not usually. Not even towards her.

"It's good wine." Out of nowhere, Sam speaks, his voice softer than normal. Or has she just had too much to drink? It's hard to remember what Sam sounds like when he's not shouting, or throwing barbed comments her way.

She shouldn't be thinking about this, not now that she's drinking _and_ he's here.

It takes all her effort to say, "it's fine for a screw top." Normally, there'd be a response of _since when have you been a wine connoisseur_ , but she's not in the mood for an argument. A rare change, especially with Sam around.

He nods a little, and the music disguises the fact that they have once more lapsed into silence.

A few more minutes (and a few more sips of wine) pass, and Connie realises that it's her turn to strike up the conversation. Not that she should have to, she thinks, as she didn't invite him in. But it would be rude not to.

"New suit?" she asks, taking a look at his outfit. He's shed his thick coat, and she can see the charcoal grey suit underneath, complete with a matching tie. He looks _good_ – but, then again, he always does. And he knows it.

It's just rare that she's actually willing to stroke his ego and remind him.

Sam smiles a little and nods. "Relatively speaking."

Then he laughs a little, not quite harsh and not quite natural, before he continues, "are we really going to do this? Small talk has never really been our thing, Connie – and neither has silence."

He's more articulate than she is (and she's _definitely_ blaming the wine for that), and she feels intimidated. Which is strange, for Sam Strachan has never intimidated Connie in all the years that they've known one another.

"True," she concedes, looking up to meet his gaze. "But you started this conversation, Sam."

Sam sits forwards in his seat a little, closing the gap between them infinitesimally though it doesn't really matter: there's still a table, the floor, and a whole lot of historical baggage between them. Probably more baggage than most exes – and they'd never even really been in a relationship, had they?

"So how did you get on with your targets today? Did you hit your _very_ ambitious target?" Sam asks, and if Connie wasn't a little bit drunk, she'd say that he's flirting with her.

(He's definitely flirting with her.)

But she rolls her eyes and leans back, closing her eyes for a moment. It's so bright in here. Or is it just Sam's presence?

"Can we not talk about work?" Connie responds, setting her glass down on the table. "I mean, your usual criticism of choice is that I spend too much time focusing on work, so."

He's stunned into silence, though when she opens her eyes, she notices that he's staring at her. Is that worry? Surely not. Sam Strachan doesn't know what worry is.

"Well, we never really did spend much time talking about much _other_ than work," Sam responds, taking a large gulp from his glass.

Connie takes a deep breath and resists the urge to pick up her own glass. He's far more sober than she is; she should at least let him catch up.

(She's already planning on getting through another bottle with him.)

She raises an eyebrow, and smiles a little. "Really? I'm sure I remember more interesting conversations than _work_." Then she laughs a little and steers the conversation back into safer waters. "So how's little Rufus doing?"

Sam smiles, and it sends shockwaves through Connie, though she tries to ignore them. He's captivating. She can't get away.

"He's doing well – I tend to be the one to walk him, of course, but Grace spends a lot of time with him during the day," Sam replies, causing Connie's heart to stop. _Shit_. She should have remembered that talk of the dog would bring up Grace.

But she's drunk and she loves Grace more than anything in the world, and so even though she _should_ get out of this conversation right now and leave and get Sam Strachan out of her house before she tells him about feelings that she should never have let develop, she lets the conversation continue.

"His tail always used to wag whenever I went near the cupboard to get his food," Connie continues, reminiscing. Back in the days when her daughter didn't hate her and it felt like things were finally getting back on track. "He almost had a sense that you were getting food – and even if I wasn't, he'd still get a few bits of food. He definitely knew how to play me." She laughs, but it's a little bitter because using the past tense isn't something that comes naturally to her when talking about Rufus and Grace.

Sam's eyebrows raise slightly – _probably noting that I haven't asked about Grace_ , Connie thinks – but he doesn't comment on her omission. Instead, he takes another drink, and another.

"He's still a cheeky chappie – though I think he's more of a Herbert than a Rufus," Sam offers, his tone thoughtful. "Who named him Rufus, anyway?"

Connie's smile freezes on her face, and she has to concentrate harder than she should to stop the tears from falling. Tears are too natural to her, nowadays.

"Grace."

"Ah."

There's silence again, as Connie can't bring herself to ask a question and Sam evidently _waits_ for her to, so she picks up her glass and takes a gulp. A big one. And then another, until the glass is half-empty.

Sam's drained his glass by this point, and is already picking up the bottle. He fills his own glass, picks it up, and walks across the room to Connie. Just his presence makes her shiver, because he's everything she wants and hates at the same time, and she realises that this is the most vulnerable she's been around him in a long while.

"May I?" he asks, his voice sultry, as he picks her glass up without even waiting for an answer.

She sets it down on the table, murmuring her thanks, though it's hard to keep focused on exactly what she should and shouldn't be saying right now, and expects him to make the journey across the room again.

He surprises her by sitting down on the sofa next to her. They're not quite touching, but he's close enough for her to reach over and touch, if she wanted to.

(She does.)

She turns slightly so that she's almost – but not quite – facing him, and it reminds her somewhat of an old memory, the first time they did this. Different house, different sofa. Same feeling.

"You know exactly who Grace reminds me of?" Sam asks, and Connie freezes. Nothing good ever comes from hypothetical questions from Sam Strachan. "You."

The answer startles her, and she's glad she's not holding her glass of wine, otherwise it would be all over them both.

She doesn't answer, because she doesn't know if it's a compliment or an insult.

He waits, evidently expecting _some_ sort of response, and sighs. " _Yes_ , Connie that was a compliment."

She's still frozen, but somehow she manages to get her lips to move, and prays that what comes out isn't too bitchy. "Well, I mean you've spent twelve years telling me that I'm an awful person, so I'm slightly concerned you're comparing our daughter to me."

Well, it could have been better.

She turns away to pick up her glass, and takes another big gulp. It seems to be the only way to get through the more difficult parts of the conversation, which seems to be most of it.

Leaning forwards again, Sam shakes his head. "I…well, yes I have said a lot of things that I regret, but that doesn't mean that I've been impervious to your good qualities too," he adds, smiling a little. He takes another sip of wine. "Please don't expect me to sit here and list them all, because that would be embarrassing for us both."

Connie shakes her head, and smiles a little, his humour unlocking her from her instinctive fear-pose that discussion of Grace seems to bring about.

"Well, Mr Strachan, now you've said _that_ , I really must hear them," she responds, more than a little flirty.

He can tell, too, because there's a light in his eyes at being challenged.

"You do drive a hard bargain, Connie," he says, taking another drink. All they seem to be doing is drinking, which is good, because it'll get him as drunk as she is soon; maybe he won't remember what secrets she confesses.

"So, you're both the most stubborn people I've ever met – that's both a compliment and a criticism, so maybe I should have started with something else," Sam continues, laughing a little. His gaze is still locked on hers, and it's as if he's speaking to her soul. If she has one. "You're funny – though you hide it more than she does – and impulsive and kind, sensitive though you both try and hide it. Intelligent and intuitive. Loyal.

"And the most loving people I've ever met, even if you're both too annoying to show it."

She can't breathe, because it's all too much, it's all she's ever wanted to hear and everything she wants to forget. She wishes that he'd just repeat his words over and over again, because, for a tiny moment, she felt self-validated: she felt like a good mother. Then it's gone, because no matter how similar they are and no matter how hard she tries, Grace still isn't here, is she?

A tear rolls down her cheek, and she wipes it away slowly, turning away from Sam. She doesn't want him to see her cry again.

Then she goes to take another sip of wine, and finds that it's empty. Great. And she thought she'd drink _less_ when she had some company, not more.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," Sam murmurs, reaching out and taking Connie's glass off her. "I'm sorry."

She laughs a little as he pours them more wine, absently noting that they'll need another bottle if he'll stay. "I think that's the first time you've ever said sorry to me, Sam."

He hands her the glass of wine, though his hand lingers, letting their skin come into contact with one another. It's as if he's made of superglue, because it's a real struggle to make herself let go.

(He feels the same.)

"Nah, I definitely apologised for at least one of my dramatic schemes up on Darwin," Sam retorts, in a clear attempt to lighten the mood. Or change the subject. Or both. Either way, Connie appreciates it.

"Dramatic schemes where you completely flouted all authority and hierarchical structures," Connie adds, smiling a little. With a little distance, she looks back almost fondly on those schemes. At least there were always good intentions involved.

"Dramatic schemes where I completely flouted all authority and hierarchical structures _to save lives_ ," Sam corrects her, and she has to laugh. Trust him to answer back, even now.

"To save lives," she agrees. "Those days were interesting, weren't they? But _so_ much more politics to deal with, one surgical department against another, fighting for the same meagre funding which, I mean, was always going to cardiothoracics, but…" she trails off, having lost her train of thought, and takes another sip of wine. Time to slow down again.

Sam smiles, and suddenly Connie's aware of the fact that they've inched closer to one another. Almost unnoticeably, but not quite. She's _extremely_ aware of the fact that she could touch any part of him now.

"Ah, the good old days when I would barge into a meeting and drag you out to deal with something, rather than the other way around," he replies. "Tell me again, why _did_ you leave those days behind?"

(She has no idea that he already knows almost every detail about why she left Holby and what she did in the intervening years. How could she?)

"I resigned from being Joint Director of Surgery – too much bureaucracy, would you believe," she responds, laughing a little at the memory of that day she handed in her resignation. Well, _hand_ in is a little inaccurate. "I was always about the patients, you know, more than anything else – I know you don't believe that but.."

"I do believe that," Sam interjects, looking at her again. There's something so pure in his expression, though she's more focused on the fact that he _believes_ that she's always believed in the patients being the priority.

"I…anyway, so I didn't want to follow through on cuts, but Henrik insisted, and wanted to fire Elliot. Then there was just one day, I can't even quite remember what triggered it, but he annoyed me _so much_ , and I just lost it." She gestures emphatically, and a little wine spills, though she doesn't notice, though she does look away from Sam. "I went on and on about him being a seven foot giant Swede who had no personality and was intent on destroying my department and my hospital and, if he wanted to do that, that was fine, but I wanted no part in it."

She looks back to Sam to find him in throngs of laughter, looking as though he's struggling to breathe. "Seven foot giant," he gasps between laughs, "so accurate – it hurts."

And then she's laughing too, and they're both just sat on the sofa completely unable to say a word other than "seven foot giant" – because nothing is more true. She turns and he turns and they're almost touching, his face is literally centimetres from hers, and it's enough to stop her thinking about Hanssen, because _he's really here_.

But then her common sense kicks in, and she thinks that it's probably not a good idea. Probably.

So she pulls forwards and picks up her wine again, and has a rather large gulp in between breaths.

He sits up, too, and has stopped laughing.

It's awkward again, because it's almost as if she rejected him – which she has, but she hasn't really, because all she wants is for him to grab her and kiss her like there's no tomorrow. Which, for them, there probably isn't.

"I…I guess you should go home. To Grace." She stumbles over the words, because she doesn't want him to go, but he really should. She doesn't want their daughter to resent him, too.

He shakes his head, and sits forwards again, closer to her. "I'm sure I can stay for another bottle," he says, his voice low again. Despite the rejection, he's still here, which is more than she can say for any other man. "If that's alright with you, of course?"

She nods and smiles, wiping the tears from her eyes. She can't remember if these were happy or sad tears, but they're probably all the same.

"Board meetings must be fun now, sitting opposite someone you called a giant swede," Sam pipes up, evidently trying to restart the conversation.

Connie leans back again and faces Sam, though she makes sure that there's a good few feet of distance between them. Maybe another glass and she'll feel ready.

(Or maybe another bottle and he'll go home and she'll go to bed, alone.)

"We get on quite well, actually," she muses, thinking about the last meeting. "I shout at him and he listens to me because he knows that I've got the best ideas, and then he usually gives in to whatever demand I have."

"I'm not surprised he does," Sam murmurs, and he's looking at Connie again with that same expression from before. Desire. "You're quite terrifying. And capable of making grown men speechless, though for an entirely different reason."

He's _definitely_ flirting now, and she likes it. A lot.

"Do I make _you_ speechless?" She has to ask, he's practically set it up.

"You do more than just make me speechless, Connie."

She half-expects him to kiss her then, but he doesn't. Instead, he stands up and smiles.

"Another bottle of white?"

"Whatever you fancy."

She sort of sits in a daze until he returns, because the alcohol's hitting her harder than she thought and his words aren't really helping that. _You do more than make me speechless_. He's not said anything like that to her since before, when they could have been something if he hadn't been immature and she hadn't been hellbent on staying as far away from any form of romantic long term relationship as possible.

"Here you go," Sam says, passing Connie a new glass of wine, and again, their hands linger over one another's.

They sit in silence for a minute or so, both savouring the taste of the new wine, before Connie works up the courage to ask Sam a question.

"What happened between you and Emma?"

He takes a minute to respond, perhaps stunned that she remembered the name of his last girlfriend, before he shrugs. "I saw you."

She blushes. "Seriously, Sam. What happened?" She's determined to get a straight answer.

He shuffles in his seat slightly, removing his suit jacket, before he turns back to face her. He doesn't make eye contact, though, and Connie can tell he's uncomfortable. That's something they have in common: a lack of interest in vocalising most feelings.

"I mean…I went back to New York and she came back, but there wasn't Grace…and, like I said, I saw you," he replies, pausing to have some more wine. "I spent eight years trying to forget that you exist, Connie, and then you were just there in front of me. I'd tried to prepare myself, but nothing could.

"Simply, she didn't measure up to you. No one has. No one can."

Deliberately, Connie doesn't look at him. She _can't_ look at him. This seems too real, too raw, too fuelled by alcohol.

Maybe the second bottle was a mistake.

"Sam," she whispers his name, the word almost sticking in her throat. Can she do this? "Sam, is this just the alcohol talking?"

He sets his glass down and takes hers and sets it down, too, before he turns her head to look into her eyes. His touch is gentle yet firm, just like before.

"No," he replies earnestly. "It just seems to make you more willing to actually talk to me."

She doesn't have time to say anything because he's kissing her and she's kissing him, and it's a mix of raw desire and an emotional connection so deep it survived a ten year recess. His hands are in her hair and hers are pulling off his tie and pulling him closer to her, because all she wants is Sam Strachan.

And then she pulls back suddenly, her lips centimetres from his, and all she can think about is where his hands have moved to, but she still keeps her distance.

"Are you sure about this?" She asks him, breathing heavier than normal, looking into his eyes.

"I've wanted you for ten years," he replies, pressing his lips to her forehead, then to the corners of her eyes. "I mean, sure, I want the sex too, but I _guess_ I can wait if you want to."

She rolls her eyes and smiles as he kisses her nose gently. "Well, I mean if you can _wait_ , I'm sure that you won't mind, will you?" She asks innocently, wondering just how much longer she can keep this up. Not much longer, she thinks. She wants him just as much as he wants her.

"I'll wait for you," he murmurs, as his lips move to her neck. "Just please say you want me."

"I want you," she admits honestly, shutting her eyes. "And I want you now."

She kisses him this time, pulling his head up from her neck, and she doesn't feel like there's any blood left in her body when he finally finishes kissing her again. Her head's spinning, but all she knows is that she's happier than she's been in months, and she never wants this feeling to end.

Within five minutes, they've left his shirt and trousers and her blouse downstairs, and they're upstairs, and wishing that this night will never end.

* * *

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